


The Voices Beneath

by Halja



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest, Internal Conflict, Lamorak has no idea what he's getting himself into, Mommy Issues, Mommy Kink, Mother Complex, Parent/Child Incest, background!Gawain/Ragnelle, it certainly IS a mess, only implied but still, plus implied!Lamorak/Morgause, you decide if this mess is all unrequieted or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 19:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14600061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja
Summary: Morgause's sons love her and cope (or don't) with loving her.[BADWRONG WEEKS 2018 – #CIP0RNO EDITION – WEEK 2: INCEST! @LandeDiFandom]





	The Voices Beneath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feanoriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanoriel/gifts).



> Yes, the title comes from _that_ Heather Dale song. It seemed fitting.
> 
> This isn't meant to be Morgause bashing. At all. Just in case someone's wondering. It's just meant to be badwrong, intentionally creepy, incestuous shipping.

 

 

 

Had someone asked him about his mother, Gawain would have smiled. Now, this expression wouldn’t have been his usual smile – the open, genial one, with just a touch of humor in the easy quirk of the lips and the white flash of teeth. No, it wouldn’t have looked like that smile at all. Gawain would have spoken at length about Queen Morgause’s lands, and how she’d held them and ruled them alone ever since Lot’s untimely death, and how she administered the justice there, and how many advisors and knights and ladies-in-waiting she’d kept at court the last time they saw each other. Then, he would have talked of Orkney itself, and all that he could still see of it in his mind’s eye, from Lot’s great keep to the rocky shores and the cold blue sea of his youth. He wouldn’t have said one word about Morguase’s hair, that bright shock of red bursting loud and hot and violent on the very edge of his thoughts even as he spoke. Lady Ragnelle’s hair was red, too, but duller. Almost more brown than red, really. It curled tight and wild, instead of flowing in heavy, luscious waves down her back. After that uncomfortable conversation was over, Gawain would have stroked it with trembling fingertips, pressing himself lightly against his wife. Ragnelle would have taken him in her arms and held him there, and then she would have looked upon his raw, honest face with a strange tenderness in her keen eyes as she raised her hand to his cheek. _Shh,_ she’d have murmured, soft and warm against him. _I am here, my sweet._ He would have shivered, and buried his face in her hair.

 

Agravaine would have said Morgause was a fine mother and a just queen and a cunning, proud woman. Haughty and ambitious, for sure, but she was a king’s widow and the High King’s own sister, and who wouldn’t be in her place, really? He’d have watched his words carefully, which was something he did not always keep in mind. Perhaps he would have made a jest, too, as he was wont to do, drawing on an old childhood memory to fuel his wit and on his new experiences away from the freezing harshness of the islands to sharpen it to a fine point. Of course, he wouldn’t have told anyone of the uncomfortable flutter in his chest at the sound of her name. Or the burning, bubbling, ugly thing simmering in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of her – whenever he thought of how he wasn’t her firstborn nor the strongest and best of the litter, like Gawain. Of how he wasn’t as sweet and amiable as Gareth, or meant for a greater and brighter destiny like Mordred. How he would sometimes try to push Gaheris away from their mother, because he knew he was the only one of his siblings he could ever hope to steal her affections from. How he’d always longed for her clear, hard gaze to measure him and find him worthy at last, and how he’d never quite learnt how to stop longing. Of how scared he’d been the first time he ever dreamt of her and of her white, glowing skin – and how he started fooling around with the kitchen maids and bedding any willing lady to keep the dreams at bay.

 

Gaheris would have found himself stuck for words. He’d have tried to give a brisk, essential answer, and then changed the subject to avoid any more questions. Thinking about his mother made him sad, and that sadness would always leave him confused, and that confusion would always make him angry. And the anger that scorched him was darker and heavier than any battle-rage he’d ever felt on the field, like a hot cloud of smoke stifling his brain, clogging it till he couldn’t think. Not that he hated Morgause, of course. In truth, he adored her. Always had, always would. She was like an icon on the altar of his soul, eternally luminous and lovely as the Virgin, as remote as the farthest star in the evening sky. He just did not like to discuss her. He’d always imagined she didn’t much like to discuss him, either.

 

Gareth was a kind, courteous soul, and the whole court knew him as such. This had the advantage of making it easy to forget how very good he was at lying, and how fiercely he could guard his secrets if needed. If asked, he’d have woven a few brightly-colored memories together – Morgause’s soft hand in his hair whenever he picked wildflowers from the green grasses to bring her, and the pleasant lilt of her voice as she praised his sweetness and his obedience – and spun a pretty tale for anyone who cared to listen. He would have said nothing of how he first came to Camelot in secret, and why. Not that Morgause wasn’t a good mother. Not that she’d ever hurt him or put him in harm’s way. Perhaps, it was really him who was not a good son. He remembered how she’d hold him fast and close at times – safe in the hot, tight circle of her arms. But he couldn’t remember if he’d ever really liked that. Sometimes he still longed for that embrace, in the dead of the night. That much was true. However, he didn’t even know if he used to love it or fear it, back when he had it. Not anymore.

 

Mordred would have shivered, and he would have covered that shiver with an elegant shrug of his shoulder. He would have smiled that cold smile of his – one of those smiles he learnt from her – and asked in a pleasant voice with just a faint note of mockery, _and what, pray tell, would you like to know?_ To buy himself some time before his answer, and also because he knew there was too much to tell, and even more that he couldn’t and shouldn’t say. He was Morgause’s youngest. He was the one she brought into the world for herself only. He knew his soul had come from her and would always belong to her, and the same went for his fate. He was _hers,_ more than any of his brothers had ever been. He loved his mother, and he hated her, and for both these things he felt guilty. Once, he had almost gone as far as kissing her red, red mouth, and sinking his hand in her red, red hair – but then she’d looked at him like she knew, and told him _you’re more like your father than you think_ in a clear, inquisitive tone that held no hate nor disgust in it, and he had wished he’d drowned.

 

But luckily, people in Camelot did not speak often nor willingly about Queen Morgause. So, no one ever really asked.

Perhaps, Sir Lamorak should have thought to do it, the day before he rode for Orkney.

 

 

 


End file.
